listen, learn, love, live

He forces himself to move, setting everything next to the first aid kit, to run to the bathroom and prepare it in case you, well—what is even supposed to do? Maybe you like to treat your injuries first. Or maybe shower. He doesn’t want to seem like a creep. Remus groans, turning the tab on and splashing himself with cold water. 

It helps a bit to calm his nerves, but not enough. Not when you haven’t woken up, and it’s been nearly two hours. Surely you’d have woken up by now…? Jesus, he needs a coffee. A very strong coffee. 

As he walks back to the kitchen, trying to ease some tension off his chest and shoulders, movement picks up from the living room. He pauses, not moving a muscle in case he’s hearing things. But he hears it again. You move. He can gauge the sound, the fabric shuffling around and the sound of the blanket sliding to the floor. 

“What…” your voice is low, raspy. Like it hurts to speak. You run a hand through your suit, patting your chest, touching each of your wrists before flying to your face. As if making sure your mask is still on. “Fuck—”

Remus sucks in a breath, gathering all his courage before walking out the kitchen and towards the sofa. Towards you.  

“Hi,” he murmurs, not sure if you still have my hearing problems. He reaches between the sofa and the coffee table to hand you your backpack. “Here, found it outside the porch. You must’ve dropped it on your climb up.” 

You don’t answer at first, but Remus can feel your piercing gaze on his face. Even with the mask.  

“Does something need immediate treatment?” he still asks, sounding suddenly confident and calm and collected. Even more when time passes and you start looking more and more scared. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. M’just asking ‘cause you bled through everywhere, I’m sure you must be in lots of pain.”

“A bit,” you say, low and hoarse and wincing when your voice catches at the end. Like it physically pains you to speak. 

“Okay.” He nods, pushing his sleeves up before pointing at the small space you’ve left at your feet. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Hm.”

Remus’ lips twitch, hoping it’s reassuring enough to ease some nerves off you. He reaches for the kit, sitting a tiny bit closer, by your hip. 

“Where does it hurt?” he tries gentling his tone, looking down at the kit as he fiddles with the contents. Like he hasn’t triple checked it countless times already. 

You shift, the smallest of movements. Remus only waits, pretending to go through his ointment and gauzes to give you enough time to calm down. Or think of an escape route. Or… whatever you’re thinking. You only stare back at the side of his face, and that’s fine, too. He’s spent the last hours in silence with you, he can survive a couple more minutes.

“My…” you swallow. “I think I busted my lip.”

Remus glances up then, both in surprise and disbelief. At the implications. You only stare back. 

“And,” you raise a hand, it shakes faintly as you point at what he assumes it’s your nose. “my nose… it’s stuffed.”

He can’t help it, his lips twitch. “Stuffed?”

“Yeah,” you drop your hand. To your collarbone, tapping at the suit. Almost… near the hem of your mask. “With… um, with blood.”

“Yeah?” he frowns, shifting. Trying to control the worry in his tone. “Okay. And your head? You think you could be concussed? Do you feel dizzy?”

“Sort of.”

Remus nods, all that’s left to do, really. Nod and ask, accept the questions and pretend he’s not dying to see what awaits him under the mask. 

“Um,” you glance down at your hands, still shaking. “I can’t go home like this.”

“Of course not. We must treat your injuries first.”

You look up. “We?”

“Sure,” he moves closer, unconsciously. “If you’re okay with that.”

You hold his gaze, and Remus lets it wander away. From his face to his hands, the kit, around the flat before returning to him. You clear your throat, like you’re bracing yourself. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You hum in assent, low and almost hesitant. Remus swallows nervously, shifting closer and closer as he reaches for your face, thumb sweeping the fabric of your cheek, your jaw and neck until he finds the hem. He’s acutely aware of your eyes on him, his movements and his hands. But still, even when his heart is rattling with dread and anticipation, he sends you one last look. Tilting his head in question. You tilt it back in answer, nodding. 

And he slides it up. Slow and slow, finding patches of skin that he recognizes, badly concealed bruises on cheekbones and a busted lip that is still bleeding. Up and up until it’s completely off. 

You blink, staring back at him, and suddenly, all he can see is memories. The girl who was joined to the hip with James, who carried her camera around, who asked him about his dissertation not even a day after James introduced you, about what books he enjoys and the girl who worked at that dodgy coffee shop near campus during her first year and gave him free pastries when her boss wasn’t looking. The same girl who lets him walk her home after closing off the theater, the same girl who falls off her board and lets him tend to his scratched knees every time it happens. Not Spidergirl. Y/n.

“Oh, dove…”

You blink again, finding it hard to keep your tears at bay. “M’sorry.”

He feels himself frowning. “What for?”

“Aren’t you…” you clear your throat. “disappointed?”

“What?”

“…That it’s me?” you still ask, even with fear of whatever he might answer. To whatever possible answer your brain has concocted. 

Remus shakes his head, immediately. Unconsciously. He sets the mask down, reaching for your face again, slow and careful of your marred skin and busted lip. “Of course not. No.”

“No?”

“No, y/n. Why would I be disappointed?” he shifts closer. “Of course it’s you.”

You sniffle. “I’m sorry,” your voice quietens, smaller and smaller that Remus finds himself scooting closer to you. “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no—it’s okay,” a tear slides down, and more follow. Remus dutifully cleans them with a slow sweep of his thumb. “You’re okay.”

“S’just…” you swallow. “It hurts a lot.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything,” your hand flies up, braceleting his wrist. 

Remus sucks in a breath, eyes wandering down your face to your chest and the torn pieces of your suit. The dampness of your blood and the people you fought off, the dark red trail down your nose and your left ear. He nods, once, twice, then one last time as he helps you sit up.

“Okay, okay. Yeah,” he reaches for the kit again, then pauses. “I, um, we need to take out the suit.”

“Okay,” you nod. Then look back at him. “Actually… I usually, um, shower… before tending to, well—”

“Oh. Of course,” he stands. “Sure. That’s good, we need to disinfect any open wound.”

“…We?”

He blinks, then shakes his head. “No. I mean, you. I… I can wait outside, if you need me. Of course.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he answers immediately, smiling tentatively. “Come on, then.”

You accept his help, swallowing thickly when his arm comes around your back to hoist you up. Still, your knees shake with leftover pain from whatever or whoever you fought tonight. Remus doesn’t rush you, holding you up and tucking you to his side in a way that makes your heart ache. At the familiarity, how perfectly you slot together. Despite everything. 

Even after you’ve been to his flat a thousand times, Remus still guides you through the bathroom like it’s your first time. Explaining how the tabs work, which one is a bit tricky and ultimately deciding to leave it on for you instead, to avoid having you do it yourself in this state. He comes back a beat later with a bar of neutral soap for you, various sets of towels, and folded clothes that immediately make your chest tighten. 

“I’ll be near, yeah?”

“Of course,” you nod. “Thank you, Remus.”

He smiles, closing the door and letting you be. He walks around the flat, feeling a little pathetic and a lot calmer now that you’re awake—that the elephant in the room has been addressed. But there’s a lingering sense that this is just the beginning to something else, tending to your wounds and finding a way to coax you to stay. Not because he wants you to stay in his flat like that, but because the idea of you walking home in this state is enough to make his heart clench in panic.

When he hears the splash of water getting louder, Remus devotes himself to preparing the living room to tend to your wounds, then prepares his suturing kit and disinfects it with precision. Then returns to the kitchen to whip you up a quick dinner, tomato soup and toasties, and heats up a couple of pastries. And tea, or coffee. And can’t forget the glass of water for your painkillers—

The door opens at the end of the hallway. Fog comes curling out, then you poke your head out. “Uh, Remus…?”

He immediately stands, leaning over the threshold to look out the hallway. “Yeah?”

“I forgot my backpack. I, uh…” you brush your damp hair away. “I need it.”

“Right. Your backpack,” he turns, scanning the living room and immediately reaching for it. He closes the distance with a tentative smile. “Here.”

“Thanks,” your own lips twitch, a similar tentative stretch of a smile. “I’ll be right out.”

“Of course.”

You nod, then close the door. Remus lets his face drop, exhaling sharply and letting the pathetic feeling gnaw at him again. 

There’s shuffling movement from the other side of the door, and he prompts himself to move. To do something. Lest you open the door and find him still standing there. Remus shakes his head, turning around and going to his room to change, to find a different jumper that isn’t stained with your blood that can infect your wounds again. He glances at the door before turning on the washer with his stained jumper and sweats. Maybe you’d want to wash your suit? Is it even washing machine safe?

The door opens again, and you step out almost timidly. Remus clears his throat, forcing his traitorous heart to behave at the sight of you in his clothes. He can’t let himself get too ahead, not when he still needs to tend to your wounds.

“Alright?” he asks, setting the clothes aside and changing courses. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I… the shower always helps.”

“Yeah?” 

“Hm.” You glance around, noticing the sudden change of scenery in the living room. The tidiness and all the healing stuff he’s set out on the coffee table. “Oh wow, you… Remus, you didn’t have to do any of this.”

“I don’t mind,” he answers, a knee-jerk reaction. And because he doesn’t. He never does, especially when it comes to you. “Shall we start? I wouldn’t want to keep you hurting any longer.”

Something crosses your face, lips parted. Remus only nods reassuringly, spreading an arm towards the living room in quiet invitation. You nod, the faintest of movements before following after him. Like muscle memory, his hand finds your lower back. 

You glance down at the sofa, at the towels he’s set down where you were previously resting. Remus clears his throat, quick to explain. “I wouldn’t want your wounds to get infected again.”

“Oh,” you frown, then look back at him. Your lips twitch. “Right, of course. I didn’t think… of that.”

Remus huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m being too paranoid, aren’t I?”

“A bit,” you allow quietly, lowering yourself to sit. “S’fine, though. I don’t mind.”

He smiles, sitting by your side and channeling all his nonchalance to start healing your wounds. His eyes scan you meticulously up and down mostly to take inventory of what needs immediate tending to. But you only shift, raising your legs to fully lay down and show him your palms. They’ve stopped bleeding, and you’ve mostly cleaned them off, but you’ll probably need stitches. Remus glances down at his own hands, he can’t help it. Not when he’s had to tend to similar injuries in his own hands and arms after the incident. At least this is something he’s an expert on.

“Okay,” he takes them for inspection. “This might hurt a bit.”

“I know,” you murmur, and he glances up. You haven’t stopped staring at him the whole time. It's strangely comforting. “I trust you, though.”

His heart skips a beat. “Yeah?” he still asks, some awful part of him urges him to. His thumb sweeps the skin under your palm, the inner side of your wrist. 

“Of course I do.”

Remus’ lips twitch, and he feels warmth spreading across his cheeks as he reaches for the suturing kit. And he starts. He treats each of your injuries with aching care, slow and careful and always making sure that he’s not accidentally hurting you again. Every touch comes with a quiet look, a quiet question and an even quieter reassurance that it doesn’t hurt. 

It isn’t until your palms are fully tended, the ice patch is carefully placed on your ribs, and he’s finishing off treating your busted lip that the questions come. 

“Can I ask?” 

You blink, suddenly aware that you had been staring at him. “Huh?”

Remus glances up from your lip, finger pausing where he had been spreading ointment. “About the… do you have powers?”

“Oh.” You huff a quiet laugh, but wince when it stretches your lip. Remus winces, too. His other hand flies to your jaw, careful as he holds your face in place. It’s a conscious effort to make your voice sound calm. “Um, yeah. Sort of. It’s… well, do you have time?”

He chuckles. “Yes. Plenty, in fact,” he leans back, scanning your face and deeming it treated. “But first, are you hungry?”

“I could eat, yeah.”

“Perfect,” he stands, setting everything aside on the coffee table. Then returns, collecting everything and bringing it with him to the kitchen to throw the gauzes to the bin. “I made soup.”

“Soup?”

“With toasties, if you’d like.”

“That’s what smells nice?” you ask, looking around. Remus only nods from the kitchen, thoroughly cleaning his hands. Your heart aches at the sight, at the domesticity of it all. “Yeah, of course. Thanks.”

You watch him pace around the kitchen, coming in and out with plates and utensils and feeling strangely emotional about this whole situation. Remus seems to pick up on the sudden dimming of your mood when he returns, pausing as he sets the bowls on the coffee table to fully turn to you on the sofa.

“Are you okay?”

“Hm.”

His eyes scan you again, less in search of injuries and more like he’s trying to read right through you. This time, you fully let him. You look away, throat constricting with the feelings he’s managing to peel away from you, layer by layer starting with the mask and the suit. Remus only scoots closer, tentative at first before he moves slowly, when his palm cups the side of your face, thumb stroking your skin gently and careful of your marred lip, the restraint of your feelings snaps loose.

“Dove, hey—come here,” he whispers, thumbing at your tears and drawing you closer. “I’m here, yeah? We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

You try to speak, but whatever words you try to say won't suffice to even begin to explain the thoughts rushing through your head. He doesn’t wait, anyway. But does pull you closer. Closer and closer until your chest is nearly pressed to his front. He leans back between the cushions with you, holding you as the sniffles increase in intensity and volume. It’s hard to rein them back when you’ve finally reached your own threshold of resistance. One that you, up until now, thought was almost impossible to break through. 

“M’just…” you suck in a breath, low and stuttering that makes Remus’ heart ache. “I’m just… so tired.”

Remus holds you tighter in response, palm stroking up and down your spine. “I know,” he lowers his face, kissing the crown of your head and not at all minding how it bumps his lips with each of your sharp intakes of air. “I know, dove.”

The living room falls into a silence, or as silent it can be with each of your sobs, quieter and quieter like they hurt to let out. Remus doesn’t offer more comforting words, but does tighten his hold around you. Eventually he feels your breathing slowing down, then the way you lower your hand to rub at your face to clean your tears. Maybe he’s being a tad too doting with you, but Remus only nudges you a bit away to clean the tears himself.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice is fraught, hoarse and very quiet. 

“What for?” He asks, even if he knows there’s nothing to apologize for. You must know, too, because you struggle to speak again. “You don't have to explain anything right now. Or apologize, okay?”

You nod.

Remus strokes your cheek again, not because there are any tears left to clean, but he can’t help it. “Do you think you can have some soup?” He fixes his hold around you. “Just enough to have something in your stomach before taking the painkillers.”

You glance down at the coffee table, at the bowls and the few painkillers he’s set aside for you to take. “I can have some,” you murmur. “I don’t know about the painkillers, though—they don’t work very well.”

He frowns. “No?”

“No. I think it’s the genetics,” you rub a finger over the bandages around your palm. “Or didn’t stick long enough to let them work.”

“Well.” Remus shifts, reaching for the warmer bowl for you. Of course. “we will make sure they work this time, yeah?”

You blow at the soup, blinking in surprise when you register his words. “You’re letting me stay?”

“Of course you’re staying,” he answers quickly, a knee-jerk reaction. “I’m not letting you out of my sight in the next 24 hours.”

“Remus…”

“I want to. There’s nothing else I’d rather do right now.” He says, not having any qualms in hiding the earnestness that slips out with his tone. “And, it’d be irresponsible for you to be out, or alone, when you could be concussed. Or with hearing loss.”

Your shoulders raise up, almost meekly. “My hearing’s better.”

“Still. Wouldn’t want to take any chances.”

Your lips twitch at this, the faintest of movements but visible enough for Remus to catch. He feels himself relaxing at the sight, turning to take his own bowl of soup and keep you company while you eat. 

The spoon clings against the bowl as you think. Remus pretends to fuse with his toastie, giving it bites and trying to not appear too obvious that he’s watching you closely. You can feel him, but that’s okay.

“You know,” you start to say, voice hoarse. You clear your throat again, eyebrows bunching like it hurts. “you’re taking this far better than I thought.”

Remus huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ve had enough time to process it.”

You pause. “…time?” He nods, and you set the bowl down. Remus does the same, turning on the sofa to fully face you, waiting for you to speak. You look a tad nervous. “How long?”

He sighs. “Not a lot,” he studies you silently. “It wasn’t like I was actively trying to find out who you were but, well, dove… things just kept stacking up.”

“Things?”

“Hm. Things I really couldn’t ignore,” he reaches for your hands, careful of your bandages. “Using your webbing as tape? Really?”

You make a sound, awfully close to a groan but quiet enough to pass as amusement. Your vocal chords must be very shredded if even that little reaction hurts. Remus’ thumb sweeps at your knuckles, coaxing and comforting at once.

“That was so stupid. I didn’t even realize.”

“I could tell,” his mouth ticks to the side, full of fond amusement this time. “It was funny, though… seeing you scramble for an excuse.”

“You caught me off guard.”

“What about the whole Spidergirl photographer gig?”

“Easy money,” you answer easily. Shrugging. Remus laughs, it’s a lovely sound—your lips twitch into an almost smile. “And… well, it was the most believable excuse I could come up with.”

“Well, yes. It was believable,” he allows, scooting closer and bringing your hands to his lap. “but still very reckless.”

“More reckless than actually being Spidergirl?”

He huffs a startled laugh, rolling his eyes. “Alright, that’s enough out of you. Take your medicine.”

You accept the painkillers, and his glass of water, feeling oddly warm about it and his eyes studying you over as you take them. Remus doesn’t have any qualms to hide his satisfaction when you set the glass back on the coffee table. 

“Alright, so…” he clears his throat. “I’ve set up my room for you to sleep, if that’s okay.”

“Remus…”

“Actually, that’s not really up for debate. You can’t sleep here on the sofa.”

“But—”

“I’ll be near, it’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping here.”

Despite your heart beating loud—and the silent and sour reminder that you definitely shouldn’t entertain this if he’s still seeing Regulus—you reach for his face. Remus immediately pauses, nearly melting into your touch.

“I’ll sleep in your room. It’s okay, I promise.”

“Yeah?”

“What I don’t know if it’s okay, though,” you swallow nervously, trying to channel all your courage. “for you to sleep here. You just stitched my hands together on this same sofa—that’s… well, a bit much.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t.” You say. Then, quieter. “I do, though.”

“y/n…”

“It’s fine, I promise,” you drop your hands, suddenly acutely aware of how close you are. “Um, unless you’re… not really comfortable with—”

“You’d never make me uncomfortable.”

“I mean,” you glance around. “I did just turn your night around, it’s okay if you are a little.”

“y/n, I just cleaned your wounds and stitched your palms together—there’s nothing you can do that can make me uncomfortable.”

“And you just found out I’m Spidergirl,” you go on. “That I’ve been lying to you.”

“So what?” he shrugs one shoulder, standing up. “There must’ve been a reason, and we’ll get to that later. Or tomorrow. Right now I want you to rest.”

You part your lips to speak, but Remus only tilts his head towards the hallway, his room. Like muscle memory, you mimic it with a small tilt. His face breaks into a smile.

“That, too.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve always done that,” he explains. “As y/n and Spidergirl.”

You stand, lips twitching to their own accord. “I’ve always been too painfully obvious, huh?”

“Not really,” he spreads an arm open towards the hallway, and you follow. Not at all surprised when you feel his palm on your lower back. Remus makes an amused sound. “I just pay attention, I s’pose.”

You trip, genuinely startled and overall overwhelmed by his caring nature. Remus doesn’t seem surprised by this, though, steadying you with one hand. He doesn’t make a comment about it, either. He never does, not even when his smile shows the complete opposite. When you look up, his little smirk is so contagious you feel yourself mirroring it almost unconsciously.

His room is cozy and warm, even with the window left open just a bit, letting in a light breeze. He’s left it unmade for you, and it’s the only aspect that looks previously arranged for you. The rest is, well, characteristically messy. Books, pages, sticky notes with quotes and ideas for his dissertation, different versions of the same books and he’s left his laptop charging at the corner of his desk. Too close to the edge. You wordlessly push it to the side as you round the bed to sit. Remus’ eyes follow your movements, much like you do to him. 

“Would you like me to close the window?”

“Huh?” you look up from his desk. “Oh, no. S’fine, unless you rather have it closed?”

“Either way is fine,” he shrugs. Standing at the edge of his bed, too. The other side. “Well, make yourself comfortable, yeah? I’ll just finish tidying the kitchen.”

“Okay, sure. Do you—”

“Dove,” he huffs a laugh. “you better not offer to help right now. I’ll cry.”

You laugh, you can’t help it. “Hey! I’m just trying to be a good guest.”

“Well,” he reaches for the covers, setting them aside for you. “start by getting comfortable, yeah?”

“So bossy,” you murmur to yourself, hoping for him to hear. Remus only rolls his eyes at you before walking out the room. 

You look around, the book he’s left on his nightstand with a takeout ticket as a bookmark. His pen you’ve seen him carry around (a graduation gift from his parents that he uses to annotate), and then—your note. The ink is faded, and he’s fixed it with real tape where it’s ripping on a corner. The webbing is beginning to dissolve. Of course he kept it.

Even with your damaged ears, you manage to make out his low whispers and steps outside the door. Acutely aware that you’re in his bed and that he’s out in the kitchen, after tending to your wounds and taking care of you. It’s too much. 

Another breeze enters from the window, you pull the covers higher over you, curling in on yourself to try and stay warm. It still hurts a little to lie on your side, so you shift to the other—eyes bleary as exhaustion begins to seep into your every movement. Maybe you should’ve left the window closed. 

You cut a quick glance towards the door, checking if Remus is coming before shrugging an arm out of the covers—then remember you don’t have to hide again and scolding yourself. Some things are hard to shake off, especially when you’ve spent so long trying to keep your two lives separated. You flick your wrist towards the window latch, shooting a web to pull it closed. 

“You can just do that?” Remus asks, walking in and closing the door behind him. You flinch, caught. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just… I keep forgetting,” you mumble, sitting up. You watch him round the bed to get in, tentative and comfortable at once. “I, well, they came with the powers. My body just… makes them.”

“What?” he asks, genuinely curious. You nod, and Remus points at your wrists, you give them to him without second thought. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really, no.” 

“Have you ever ran out of… uh—”

“Webs?”

“Yeah, that. Have you ever run out of them?”

“No, which is interesting ‘cause it’s been years since the spider bit me.”

He lowers your hands, eyes flickering to you. “Spider?”

You shrug. “I told you it was a long story.”

Remus’ lips twitch, amused and a little shy as well. “Right, of course,” he shifts, lying down but not letting go of your hands yet. “That’ll be a conversation for later. Now—”

“We need to rest?” you finish off, lips twitching.

He nods. “You need to rest.”

“So do you,” you murmur, letting your face drop to the pillow. It smells like him. Jesus. “S’why I said we.”

You pat the pillow next to yours, and Remus only rolls his eyes again, undeniably fond as he settles down to sleep. Only letting go of one of your hands to pull the covers over you. He looks pretty, he’s always been, despite what he says about his scars, it’s a secret you vowed to take to your grave—how achingly pretty he is and how much he undermines it. 

Remus’ lips tick to the side. “What?”

“Hm?”

He shifts, tapping at the divot between your eyebrows. “Stop thinking.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Just want you to have a good night’s sleep,” he smiles, small and tentative. “When was the last time you had one of those?”

You genuinely can’t remember. Remus only hums like he can gauge it by your silence. Something twists inside your chest, something urgent. 

Before you can rein yourself in, you shuffle closer. Remus only watches you, monitoring your movements as you wrap your arms around his middle in a tight embrace. His arms come around you almost immediately, like this is something you always do. Hugging… cuddling in bed. But you need him to know, you need to let him know how much this means to you. Hopefully this is enough. 

“Thank you, Remus.”

“You’re welcome, dove,” he pulls you closer. “Even if there’s nothing to thank me for. I’d do this every night, if you’d let me.”

“I know, and,” I love you, it almost slips out. You only tighten your arms around him. “…and thank you.”